


Star Seeker Seeking Same

by luxpermanet



Category: Football RPF, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Quidditch, M/M, Rivalry, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxpermanet/pseuds/luxpermanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Real Madrid and FC Barcelona are Quidditch teams in the wizarding world, and Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi are rival Seekers. </p><p>(or, that story where Cristiano is kicked in the ass by circumstance because he non-stop fumes about losing, and he falls in love with Leo, anyway)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CR (minus 7)

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, there was a girl who began shipping Cristiano Ronaldo and Leo Messi so hard. This girl is also a big Harry Potter fan, and couldn't stop thinking about the Madridistas and Blaugranas as Quidditch teams. And so she set to work one Sunday afternoon and came up with this monster, which she hopes y'all will enjoy because she's having a helluva grand time writing it. 
> 
> This is entirely a work of fiction. I own nothing and no one (though Cristiano Ronaldo is more than welcome to own me), and am taking liberties with all these lovely people. No monetary profit is to be made of this; only emotional profit which can be classified as some form of joy.

Cristiano had woken that morning to a nasty gash on his eyebrow, courtesy of the sharp edges of the Snitch’s wings on the Quidditch World Cup trophy he’d shamelessly tucked into bed next to him the previous night. He’d been high on the win, and no one could deny him his joy. His team’s victory had been a sweet, satisfying end to a long, dry spell for Portugal’s national Quidditch team, which had failed to make it to the finals ever since it joined in 1994. The crowd had roared when Cristiano Ronaldo, the most promising Seeker of his generation had managed to catch the coveted Golden Snitch after having to sit out most of the game due to a Bludger-induced knee injury. He had gone through two days of Skele-Gro hell, but it was a pain he’d gladly endured to be able to join his Quidditch club, Real Madrid, for practice sessions and a couple of friendlies in preparation for the upcoming European Cup.

  


“Thank goodness for magic,” he murmured, spelling the gash away with his wand before sauntering to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

  


Being Muggle-born, Cristiano still liked to go about his routines the ordinary way when he had the luxury of time. Sergio Ramos, his close friend and one of Madrid’s Beaters, liked to speed things up with cleaning spells. Frankly, this still horrified Cristiano, whose obsession with hygiene came narrowly close to rivalling his obsession with winning. The mere thought of spelling his teeth clean every day nearly got him choking on his toothpaste.

  


He poked his head into his son’s room on his way to the kitchen, unsurprised to find it empty. Junior was in full-on exploratory mode these days, and the four walls of his bedroom were hardly enough to accommodate his growing imagination. Cristiano wouldn’t be surprised if a letter from Hogwarts would appear in his mailbox by the time Junior turned 11; the boy certainly had the potential to become a wizard. There was one odd occasion when a few of Junior’s stuffed toys had somehow ended up on the roof, which had spooked the last babysitter. Cristiano had strong suspicions that magic was at fault, though the boy hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary since.

  


“What do you think of pancakes for brunch, little man?” Cristiano crawled into the giant blanket fort he’d helped Junior set up in the living room last night to give his son a kiss. “I don’t have to be at the stadium until after lunch today, so we can eat together.”    

  


Junior lit up like a Christmas tree, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’d like that, _Pai_! I was trying to wake you up this morning, but you were busy cuddling with the cup thing.”

  


Cristiano groaned. Junior’s straightforwardness was going to be the death of him someday. The kid was terrible at keeping secrets and liked to tell stories about his father. Cristiano wouldn’t know what to do with himself should Junior end up blabbing about his trophy-hugging to Sergio or Marcelo.

  


“Am I allowed to tell Jen that you won the Kidditch World Cup?” Junior asked solemnly, legs dangling adorably from the stool Cristiano had plopped him down on.

  


“She probably knows by now, but you’re welcome to talk to her about it,” replied Cristiano. “Also, it’s spelled Q-U-I-D-D-I-T-C-H. Try once more?”

  


“Quidditch!” Junior chirped, looking proud of himself.

  


Cristiano looked up from the havoc he was making in the mixing bowl to beam at him. “There you go.”

  


After the toys-on-the-roof incident, Cristiano had placed an ad for a babysitter in the Daily Prophet. It had helped him get hold of Jennifer, a funny, snarky Ilvermorny student in need of a summer job while she was vacationing in Europe. She and Junior got on well, and she didn’t give a rat’s ass about how Cristiano was a famous Quidditch player, which he appreciated.  

  


“Can I come with you to practice today?” Junior wheedled. “I don’t want to go to school.”

  


“You can’t skip preschool just because you’re bored, little man,” Cristiano sighed as he went about prepping the stove. “We don’t always get to do the things we like.”

  


“I wish I could do magic like you,” said Junior wistfully, sounding too old for his age. “Then I wouldn’t have to go to normal school. Or take naps.”

  


Cristiano laughed. “One day, you’re going to wish you could take lots of naps. And I wouldn't worry too much about Hogwarts, if I were you—you'll get your chance soon enough.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

The Santiago Bernabéu was alive once more. Now that the World Cup was over, many of Real Madrid’s players had returned from their holidays, eager to add another European Cup trophy to their growing collection. Cristiano was more than looking forward to getting his groove back on. There was little he loved more than the feeling of being on a broom. As early as first year, he’d taken to flying much quicker than he had to his classes. He’d already been a star when he graduated from Hogwarts; the Quidditch Cup had made itself at home in Severus Snape’s dour-looking office for a good six years—he’d lost one to Hufflepuff, of all Houses—thanks to his efforts.

  


Iker Casillas was waiting for him in the locker room, looking unusually Zen. Cristiano figured it was because it was way too early in the season from him to lose sleep over formations and meal plans for the team. The Real Madrid Keeper and team captain was one of his oldest friends and all-around favourite people. They’d met at detention in Hogwarts after the mishaps that took place during a particular Double Divination class. Cristiano and Sergio had offended Professor Trelawney by not taking the tea leaf-omen exercises seriously—they’d joked about their own violent deaths quite often. Iker, who had been Ravenclaw prefect and Quidditch captain, had committed an even graver offense by commenting on how illogical Divination was at length. Somehow, the three of them had wound up friends, and school had become a lot more tolerable. Their professors had been aghast when Iker, who could have been the future Minister of Magic given how smart he was, had also elected to play professionally. Cristiano and Sergio— _especially_ Sergio—couldn’t have been happier.

  


“This is the calm before the storm,” Iker said in way of greeting, gesturing to the empty locker room. “I’m glad I decided to come an hour early; I had time to do some admin work and squeeze in some sprucing up—the robes were looking a little wrinkled.”

  


“I’m sure the boys will appreciate you doing their ironing for them, San Iker,” Cristiano said breezily. “I really should brush up on my household spells. My son has become a little savage and has found much contentment in turning the house upside down.”

  


Iker smiled. “Practice makes perfect. I’ve had plenty of time; sharing an apartment with Sese is almost the same as raising a child.”

  


“Where is he, anyway?” Cristiano asked. “I was hoping the three of us could catch up before getting on the pitch.”

  


“Still asleep,” Iker replied, rolling his eyes. “He’s a big boy; he can Apparate on his own. Imagine if he were a Muggle subject to the use of vehicles and public transport. He would be late for everything and my life would be completely off-schedule.”

  


Cristiano smirked. “But you love him, anyway.”

  


Iker glared at him in return, but his flushed cheeks were a dead giveaway. Cristiano made a kissy face at him before making his way to his locker to change into his gear, eager to take to the pitch and test the new Moontrimmer broomsticks from their sponsors. As the rest of his teammates began to trickle in, they exchanged high-fives and quick hugs. Cristiano enjoyed the camaraderie brought on by the love of the sport; outside of Quidditch and his small circle of close friends, he didn’t seek people out much.

  


“There you are, Cristiano!” Sergio said cheerfully, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, face tan and eyes bright with mirth. “Hawaii was beautiful—you seriously should have come—but then I remembered your knee got fucked up. Speaking of which, how’s it faring now?”

  


“I’ve come to admit, albeit very reluctantly, that Skele-Gro is a necessary evil,” Cristiano replied. “Otherwise, it’s doing fine. My mother has stopped threatening to send Payet a Howler.”

  


“Good, good,” said Sergio. “We’ll need you in tip-top shape for the European Cup. Word has it that FC Barcelona has gotten their hands on a new Seeker who is talented as fuck.”

  


“Better than yours truly?” Cristiano asked, arching an eyebrow. “I have high doubts, my friend.”

  


“You’re so full of yourself, as per the usual,” Sergio barked out a laugh. “You probably have nothing to worry about—you’re already a legend. All their lives, people have pictured the ideal Seeker as some tiny little fucker with laser vision. Years later, a six-foot-tall Muggle-born wizard named Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro breaks the fucking mold. Good times, man. Good times.”

  


“Shall we, gentlemen?” Iker sauntered over to them. "The pitch awaits.”

  


Cristiano grinned, throwing an arm around each of his friends. It was good to be back.                                    

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

“I do not see pizza anywhere on this list,” said Sergio mournfully. “Don’t we at least get cheat weekends, my darling San Iker?”

  


“I’m not saying you can’t have pizza, Sese,” Iker replied. “You can—and I know you will—have it at some point when you truly crave it, but you must modify your workouts to accommodate the added calories when you do. Remember, I can cast an _Episkey_  to save broken noses, but I cannot simply cast an _Evanesco_ to get rid of fat deposits. Magic does not exist to make us lazy.”

  


Cristiano chuckled, remembering the Iker from their school days. After practice, Iker had invited Cristiano over to his and Sergio’s apartment to draw up the dreaded diet plans and review the rosters of the other teams to discuss possible strategies. As a wizard, he was the most accomplished of their lot, and it showed in the way the lists were writing themselves, all courtesy of wandless magic. Cristiano had taught himself how to cast a wandless _Accio_ , but still found comfort in doing magic with his wand, a sturdy 12-inch black walnut with a dragon heartstring core. He had been awed by it back then; he’d grown up poor, and it was the first beautiful thing he had ever owned.

  


“Everyone’s squad line-ups are more or less the same as last year’s,” Iker observed, examining the ones that had fallen to Iker’s desk in a neat pile. “With the exception of those who were traded, rotated out from reserve, and those sitting out a few games due to injury, we’ll more or less be dealing with the same people in the same positions.”

  


“Well, I believe we are in a good place to win this year,” said Cristiano. “With Bale, Benzema, and James as Chasers, Sergio and Pepe as Beaters, Iker as Keeper, and myself as Seeker, the other teams do not stand a chance.”

  


“And there’s always the thorn on our side that is Barça,” Sergio pointed out. “They got a lot of new blood this year—fucking Neymar from Brazil is now a Chaser for them, would you believe? And let’s not forget _La Pulga Atómica_. Fucking Lionel Messi.”

  


Cristiano blinked. “Did you just say ‘Lionel Messi,’ Sergio?”

  


“Yeah, man,” Sergio replied. “He was the one I was trying to tell you about earlier today. Long story short, Lionel Messi is now FC Barcelona’s Seeker—the same Lionel Messi from Hufflepuff who whopped our asses when we lost to them in sixth year.”

  


Iker sighed. “Unfortunately, Cristiano hasn’t quite gotten over that incident.”

  


Cristiano was at a loss for words, the pit of rage in his stomach bubbling like a simmering pot. He would never—could never—forget that day. It had been one of the longest games in his school career. Slytherin had been up by two goals; 16-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo was greedy for victory, and he’d spied the Snitch by the goal posts. He’d been so close to celebrating, his fingertips grazing cold, familiar metal—until a pale hand had beaten him to it, dashing Slytherin’s hopes of a six-peat. Cristiano had been dumbstruck by the defeat. He’d stalked off the pitch afterwards, ignoring the outstretched hand of a small, mousy-haired boy in canary yellow Quidditch robes.

  


“Whatever it is you’re thinking, I don’t want to know it,” Iker said firmly. “You need to stop letting your bruised ego get the better of you, Cristiano.”

  


Cristiano exhaled. “I’ll feel better when we beat them. Then the world will know who the best Seeker is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Football fans are not necessarily Harry Potter fans, and I tried to keep that in mind while writing. If you stumble upon something you don't understand, please leave a comment and I'll be happy to address it. Technical Quidditch terms will be explained in the notes sections as I go along. 
> 
> Random Things:  
> 1.) It's like Cristiano - Harry, Sergio - Ron, and Iker - Hermione.  
> 2.) The babysitter may or may not be Jennifer Lawrence.  
> 3.) Episkey - minor healing spell, Evanesco - vanishing spell, Accio - summoning charm  
> 4.) Basic Quidditch: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/quidditch/articles/146054/title/quidditch-basics-beginners
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Until next chapter.


	2. LM (minus 10)

In between Quidditch practice, photoshoots for _Witch Weekl_ y, and looking after Junior, all thoughts of Lionel Messi had managed to elude Cristiano for the time being. Practice-wise, things were going swell; though the end of a match hinged on Cristiano’s ability to catch the Snitch, scoring and defending played equally significant roles in ensuring a victory. He’d been looking out for their new Chaser, James Rodríguez, a bit concerned that the kid—James had been a wee Hufflepuff fourth year when Cristiano had graduated—would have difficulty keeping up with Karim Benzema and Gareth Bale. James was a hard worker, though, and made up for what he lacked in theatrics with diligence and a great capacity to learn. Cristiano liked that about him.

 

“I have a confession to make,” Jennifer—the babysitter—announced loudly over the whirring sounds of the blender. Junior had specifically asked for a banana-kiwi-Cauldron Cake smoothie that morning, and Cristiano was willing to give him whatever he wanted for as long as he would stop trying to climb all the tall things in sight.

 

Cristiano glanced up at her as he slipped on his shoes. “As long as you’re not quitting on me, I’m all ears.”

 

“I wouldn’t ditch Junior for the world, man,” Jennifer said, flipping him the bird. “I just wanted you to know that I burst out laughing whenever I see your latest _Witch Weekly_ cover on the stands—that gross winky face is doing you no favours, Ronaldo.”

 

“Well, I am pleased to announce that you’re in the minority,” Cristiano smirked. “I heard it’s been selling like hotcakes—just as anything with a shirtless Cristiano Ronaldo would.”

 

“Bradley told me copies have been flying off the shelves in the United States, too,” informed Jennifer. “Someone sent them a copy. Irina almost set it on fire. I think she enjoys hating you.”

 

Cristiano rubbed his temples at the mention of his ex. He’d met Irina Shayk when select students from Beauxbatons Academy had come to Hogwarts for an exchange programme in his fifth year. Theirs had been a beautiful and tumultuous affair; she was headstrong and exotic, and he’d loved her for it. They had broken up shortly after Cristiano left Manchester United for Real Madrid—the spark had died down as Cristiano’s career had soared. She moved to the United States to pursue a modelling career, and had met and shacked up with some film star named Bradley Cooper. Cooper, unfortunately, was a close friend of Jennifer’s from Ilvermorny.

 

“Years later, and she still wants to use my face as a punching bag,” he muttered. “I bet she’d happily launch a Bludger at it, too, if I offered her a bat.”

 

“Well, you do have the tendency to behave like a world-class jerk, sometimes,” Jennifer pointed out. “Also, you haven’t introduced me to James yet—he’s as cute as a button, and I think I might want him in my life.”

 

Cristiano glowered at her. “The kid doesn’t need distractions while he’s working on building a career—one that is extremely promising, might I add.”

 

“You should try taking your own advice, Ronaldo,” Jennifer said cheekily, spelling her concoction into Junior’s precious Barça sippy cup. Aghast at his son’s burgeoning affection for the opponent, Cristiano had tried to vanish it once, giving up only when Junior had refused to speak to him. “If you don’t watch out with your serial dating, people will be counting the notches on your bedposts instead of tallying your Snitch-catching records,” she added. “Also, you’re becoming an old fart, and you need to settle down with someone who could be a good partner for you and a great parent for Junior.”

 

“You, Iker, and my mother are all saying the same thing,” Cristiano complained. “Can’t a man have some fun with a few hot girls every now and then?”

 

Junior chose that moment to torpedo into the kitchen, flinging himself around his father’s middle. “Have a good day at practice, _Pai_! Please say thank you to uncles Sese and Iker for the Chocolate Frogs they sent me. I had one this morning, and it was Zizou on the card.”

 

“If you like, I can take it with me to practice so he can sign it for you,” Cristiano replied, earning a happy squeal from Junior. “Behave yourself for Jennifer today, alright?”

 

“You be nice to everyone today, too, _Pai_ ,” Junior said solemnly. “Uncle Sese told me that you’re getting wrinkles on your forehead because you’re always angry.”

 

Cristiano sighed. “Why do I always end up getting schooled by my own son?”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

It was only right that he would make good on his promise to Junior, so he’d gone straight to their manager’s office before heading to the locker rooms to get the Chocolate Frog card signed. Cristiano was surprised to find Iker inside with Zidane, both glued intently to what looked a live Quidditch match.

 

“It’s good you’ve come by, Cristiano,” Zinédine Zidane said. “This is something you may need to watch—have a seat, make yourself comfortable, and leave your rage in the hallway.”

 

Cristiano blinked, confused, but did as he was asked. “I’m not raging.”

 

“You probably will in the next few seconds,” Iker remarked dryly. “Pay attention.”

 

Players in blue-and-claret robes wove between and above others clad in red-and-white—it was a friendly match between FC Barcelona and Bayern Munich. Cristiano’s eyes immediately drifted to Lionel Messi, who was hovering above the action on the pitch on his broomstick, subtly scanning the air for any sign of the Snitch. The Atomic Flea did not seem at all bothered by Bayern Munich’s Seeker, who was circling him like a hawk. Cristiano knew very well how irksome playing against Messi could be; the man never seemed to crack under pressure, his deadpan expression masking his feelings from the world.

 

“Poor Müller has no idea Messi’s toying with him,” muttered Iker. “It’s not glaringly obvious, but I believe Messi’s already spotted the Snitch. If you watch his eyes very carefully, he seems to be keeping track of something that’s in motion.”

 

“He should just hightail after it and put Bayern Munich out of its misery,” Cristiano snorted. “I don’t understand why he leads the opposing Seeker on when he could just win it for Barça at the flick of the wrist.”

 

“Perhaps it’s because he’s a team player who is willing to share the spoils,” said Iker dryly. “I’m not saying you’re selfish, Cristiano—alright, you are, at times—but in the eyes of the public, Messi is infinitely more likable than you ever will be because of his humility.”

 

Slightly mollified, Cristiano turned his attention back to the screen. Messi was hurtling towards the pitch at an alarming speed, Müller at his heels. Recognising the tactic, Cristiano found himself at the edge of his seat, dislike eclipsed by a grudging admiration as Messi effortlessly pulled out of the dive, sending Müller crashing.

 

It was a perfectly executed Wronski Feint. Onscreen, the Barça fans roared with glee.

 

“Look at that,” Iker murmured. “His control is impressive.”

 

With no one but the Beaters to tail him, Messi had abandoned all pretences. The Snitch was an easy catch this time around, seemingly dead-set on meeting Messi’s palm as it landed in his outstretched hand with a satisfying smack.

 

“And that concludes that,” Zidane said, waving his wand at the screen to terminate the transmission. “I wanted you both to see this match because Enrique has arranged for Barcelona to have a pre-Euro Cup friendly with us. Before you go around throwing hexes—I’m talking to you, Cristiano—let me tell you that this is for charity. All proceeds will go to the children’s ward of St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries in London. Enrique and I are thinking of organising a team visit as well.”

 

“I like the idea,” Iker brightened. “It would be a good team building experience for everyone involved. I can help make the arrangements on the Real Madrid side.”

 

“Excellent,” Zidane grinned. “You should owl Messi—he doesn’t believe in texts or emails—to coordinate. The whole thing was his idea.”

 

Cristiano wanted to roll his eyes. Quidditch player, philanthropist, and Argentina’s sweetheart. Lionel Messi didn’t seem to have a goddamn bad bone in his tiny body.

 

“I will,” Iker agreed. “Cristiano, I’m commandeering you to help me—actually, all of us are going to be greatly involved in this. In fact, I’m going to owl Messi right now.”

 

The Keeper Apparated on the spot, leaving Cristiano and Zidane to stare at the spot where he’d been just moments ago. Remembering why he had come by in the first place, Cristiano dug the Chocolate Frog card out of his pocket and passed it to Zidane. “Junior would love it if you signed this for him. He has developed a newfound determination to collect them all. I'm already dreading the upcoming trips to the dentists; thankfully, I have the option not to go the Muggle route.”

 

“I can see where he gets that from,” Zidane said with a smile, scrawling his signature on the back of the card. “Oh, and Cristiano? Go easy on yourself once in awhile. Nothing good is going to come out from you gnashing your teeth while thinking of Lionel Messi at night.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

“Are they here yet?”

 

“Obviously not.”

 

“I can’t wait to meet Messi; he’s almost as awesome as Cristiano.”

 

“Neymar, though.”

 

“And Piqué. I heard he’s like, seven feet tall.”

 

“Don’t listen to anything Sese tells you, Toni.”

 

At Iker’s insistence, the entire Real Madrid team had gathered in the lobby of the hotel where the Barça boys were billeted at. The reserve team, which was comprised of the younger players, was practically quaking with excitement. Benzema, Bale, and Pepe were as cool as cucumbers. Sergio was preoccupied with reassuring Iker that everything would be fine. James hung back with Cristiano, trying very hard not to look nervous.

 

“Stop quaking in your shoes,” Cristiano said kindly, placing what he hoped was a calming hand on James’ shoulder. “It’s just Barça—no one is going to kill you.”

 

“What if they outright hate us?” James asked quietly. “I mean, we’re going to be together for almost two weeks for the hospital visit and the game. I can’t imagine how it’s going to be like if we’ll be at each other’s throats from the very start.”

 

“Don’t be such a pessimist, James,” Cristiano rubbed his shoulder. “Messi may not be my most favourite person in the world, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to murder him. Besides, the rest of them are pretty okay; Piqué and I were at Manchester United together, and we don’t hate each other.”

 

James smiled at him. “Thanks, Cristiano. I feel a little better now.”

 

The Barcelona players winked in one by one, some looking a little more cheerful than others. Gerard Piqué was one of the surlier ones, but his face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning the moment his eyes landed on Cristiano.

 

“Ronaldo!” he roared, enveloping the Portuguese Seeker in a bear hug. “I don’t remember seeing you in anything that isn’t a game or an issue of _Witch Weekly_! Shaki digs the new cover, by the way; she says people will find it titillating—whatever that means. Anyway, how are you? You don't owl me anymore, superstar."

 

“I’m well, Piqué," Cristiano replied, grinning in spite of himself. “I hardly have time for niceties these days; right after the World Cup, I had to deal with my injury so I could come back in time for—well, all this. I saw that photo of Milan and Sasha you posted on Instagram the other day. They’re looking more and more adorable. Send them and Shaki my affection, won't you?”

 

“They definitely would with a father like yours truly!” Piqué laughed. He rounded on James, who stood there, looking shell-shocked. “And this must be young James Rodríguez. Congratulations on making the main team, kid. I’m looking forward to see how well you play—hang on, let me say hi to Casillas and Ramos. I’ll be back to grill you later, Ronaldo.”

 

James blinked. Piqué seemed to forget his own strength at times, and the poor kid had nearly keeled over when the older man had clapped him on the shoulder. “He has so much energy. It’s kind of insane.”

 

“Wait until he gets some Firewhisky in him,” Cristiano said dryly. “Things get wild very quickly.”

 

Messi has always been relatively short compared to his teammates, but Cristiano couldn’t seem to find him as he went around to shake hands. Puzzled by the other Seeker’s absence, he sought Piqué out in the chaos, hoping to get an answer.

 

“Messi is not coming?”

 

“He’s running a little late,” Piqué explained. “He Apparated to my house right before I left saying he had to deal with something first before joining us. Poor man looked a little harassed—hey, you didn’t send him a hate owl or something that would make him feel bad, did you?”

 

Cristiano arched an eyebrow. “You all have so little faith in me when it comes to Messi. Of course I didn’t do anything of that sort. Why on earth would I stoop so low? I was just curious because everyone but the little star is here.”

 

“Well, the ‘little star’ is surprisingly grateful for your concern.”

 

Leo Messi stepped out from the fireplace, a duffel bag on one arm and a child on the other. He didn’t look like he’d aged much since Hogwarts, which annoyed Cristiano a little. Save for his hair—he’d traded the floppy mop in for a more modern 'do—everything about him was more or less the same.

 

“I’m sorry if I have my son with me,” he turned to Iker, sounding contrite. “He’s recovering from a fever—it’s nothing too serious, don’t worry—and there’s no one to look after him at home.”

 

“No issue, Lionel,” Iker assured him. “I’m just glad you got here alright. Now that everyone has been accounted for, we’ll let you check in and settle down. Xavi, how long would you need?”

 

“Two hours, tops,” Barcelona’s captain replied. “We can meet you for dinner at seven.”

 

“We’ll find a way to keep ourselves occupied for the time being,” Pepe chimed in. “I’ll be at the bar in case someone wants to join me for a drink.”

 

“Two hours is also more than enough time for a nap,” Sergio said with a grin. “I’ll be on one of the couches—feel free to kick me if I don’t wake up.”

 

Cristiano thought about Apparating home to pass the time, but decided against it. He could use the time to catch up with Piqué—who would probably just dump his bag on his bed before going back down—as proper conversation would prove to be difficult come dinner time.

 

“—I apologise for the mix-up, Lionel,” he’d heard Iker say. “I don’t know why they forgot to book you a room when you were part of the list I sent.”

 

“No harm done, Iker,” Messi said kindly. “There’s no use fighting the hotel staff; anyway, there’s nothing we can do since they’re fully booked. I can get myself a room somewhere close by.”

 

“Nonsense,” Iker replied firmly. “I don’t want you to have to shell out extra cash or go through the trouble of finding a room when we’ll be leaving for London soon enough.”

 

“He could stay in one of our homes if he’s comfortable with such an arrangement,” Benzema suggested. “It’ll only be for two nights. Plus, it might be better for the kid.”

 

“Good idea, Karim,” Iker agreed. He reached out and yanked Cristiano into their little circle. “Cris here has plenty of guest rooms in that giant palace he calls home; I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you over for the weekend.”

 

Cristiano was going to kill Iker. This was something he definitely did not sign up for. He opened his mouth to speak, ready to weasel his way out of the arrangement. He was, however, silenced by the looks on Iker's and Piqué's faces. Apparently, both had decided that glaring daggers at Cristiano would make him behave. So, instead of throwing a fit, Cristiano schooled his face into what he hoped looked like a friendly smile.

 

“My home is very comfortable. Of course I would be happy to have you over, Messi.”

 

Lies. All lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cristiano. His entire social circle is determined to get his head out of his ass. 
> 
> Also:
> 
> Wronki Feint - a (nearly) death-defying Seeker tactic. To divert attention, the Seeker will plummet towards the ground in pretence of sighting the Snitch in hopes that the opponent will mime his or her movement. The Seeker will then pull himself or herself out of the dive just before hitting the pitch, and this usually results in the opponent crashing should the tactic work.


	3. Work of Human Hands

For all his apprehension towards Messi, Cristiano’s feelings did not extend to the child. It had only taken a single sad sniffle from Thiago Messi for Cristiano to shepherd the father and son to his waiting Bugatti, adamant that another round of Floo travel would only bring Thiago’s cold back. Messi had looked Cristiano dead in the eye when he’d said his thanks, his cow eyes soft and annoyingly sincere. Thankfully, the Argentine-born Seeker wasn’t much of a talker, and they’d endured the extended trip back from the team dinner in uncomfortable silence.

 

“Don’t worry about keys or anything of that sort,” Cristiano said as he maneuvered his car into the garage. “I’ll set the wards to respond to your magical signature so you can come and go as you please over the weekend.”

 

Messi nodded in acknowledgement. He waited for Cristiano to make his way up the driveway before following suit, his levitating duffel trailing them. The distance to the main house was relatively short, but Cristiano’s longer legs and lack of sick little boy gave him the benefit of speed. In less awkward circumstances, he would slow down to match his companion’s pace, but he really did not have anything to say to Messi. He wished he could say that he would not speak to Iker as retaliation for volunteering his home, but he would likely cave first because he’d want his friend back.

 

“Junior, I’m back!” he yelled as he stepped into the foyer lest his son be glued to the television again. “I hope you didn’t accidentally set anything on fire today!”

 

“Oh, he was an absolute angel—according to Cristiano Ronaldo Jr standards, anyway.” Jennifer emerged from the kitchen. “I put _A Bug’s Life_ on for him, so he probably won’t hear you unless—hey, I didn’t know you were having guests over.” She promptly walked over to Messi, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Jennifer Lawrence. This giant butt here named Cristiano Ronaldo pays me to look after his kid, who will always be so much cuter and smarter than he is. It’s nice to meet you, Leo Messi. I know who you are because my friend from school—I go to Ilvermorny in the United States—stalks you on Instagram.”

 

“Er, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Lawrence,” Messi replied, looking flabbergasted. “This is my son, Thiago; he’s a bit sick. We’re staying here for the weekend.”

 

“Oh, the great Ronaldo has a heart!” Jennifer fake-swooned. “I don’t remember the last time anyone who wasn’t Casillas or Ramos or his mother was allowed to stay over. And I’m so sorry about Thiago; I hope he gets better soon. Anyway, I was just on my way out. I’m glad I got to say hi to you, Messi. I’ll see you on Monday, Ronaldo—don’t be a dick.”

 

“…does she really talk that much?” Messi asked faintly as soon as Jennifer had Flooed out.

 

“She does, yes,” Cristiano said with a wry smile. “But she’s been a big help, and my son adores her. He’s growing into a handful and anyone who can handle him at this stage is very welcome in my life. Speaking of which, he needs to say hello. Junior, we have a guest!”

 

Cristiano was grateful he’d decided against a second floor. Junior ran more than he walked, which often had Cristiano visualising all sorts of hallway accidents. His son stopped short at the sight of Messi, brown eyes comically wide.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me we were having Leo over, _Pai_?” Junior sounded painstakingly awed. “I mean, it isn’t my birthday yet, is it?”

 

“Do you mind?” Messi turned to Cristiano, holding Thiago out. “Just for a bit, so I can say hello to your son properly.”

 

Dumbfounded, Cristiano took the littler Messi into his arms. He watched as Messi dropped down to a squat—probably to be at eye-level with Junior—and motioned Junior forward with a kind smile.

 

“I don’t think I would make a very good birthday present, but it makes me happy to know I’d be enough,” the Argentine Seeker said. “How are you, Junior?”

 

“Oh, but I think you’d be the best present!” The six-year-old traitor flung his arms around Messi’s neck, delighted beyond measure. “You’re my most favourite Quidditch player along with _Pai_ and Zizou! I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep if _Pai_ had told me you’d be coming. Do you know that I hate naps? And normal school? Does your son hate naps, too? Does he have to go to normal school like me?”

 

“Well, I think Thiago’s too young to be thinking about school,” Messi replied, ruffling Junior’s hair. “He seems to like naps, but that’s because he’s only three. Of course, things change when we get older. The answers to all your questions could be different tomorrow.”

 

Cristiano could practically feel Junior beaming from where he stood. “You’re really smart, Leo,” his son chirped. “Though I’ll probably still hate naps and normal school tomorrow.”

 

As Junior and Messi chatted, Cristiano looked down at the child he was carrying. Much like his father, Thiago was pale, tiny, and quiet. Despite being unceremoniously deposited into a stranger’s arms, he hadn’t fussed at all. He’d somehow latched onto Cristiano, content at being held.

 

“Messi, is Thiago always this trusting?”

 

“Not in the least,” Messi replied with a grin. “He does seem to be good at distinguishing those who are good from those who aren’t. Welcome to his inner circle, Ronaldo.”

 

Unnerved by the Messis’ carefree personalities, Cristiano carefully handed Thiago back to his father. “You two must be exhausted. I’ll show you to a room you can use so you can rest. I wasn’t expecting guests, but my maid comes in twice a week to clean.”

 

He and Junior led the Messis to a guest room by the pool area—close to Junior’s room, and far from his—casting a quick charm to illuminate the space. Cristiano had been told many times that his bizarre tastes extended to his decorating, so he’d kept the guest rooms fairly simple lest his visitors feel uncomfortable.

 

“It should have all you need, but feel free to use magic should anything be lacking,” he said. “I usually get up really early to run; you can have breakfast whenever you want. The kitchen is a free-for-all zone for as long as you don’t burn it down. For anything else, my room’s just down the hall.”

 

Messi hovered in the doorway. “I’m sure we’ll have everything we need—we don’t want to inconvenience you more than we already have. Thank you for your hospitality, Ronaldo. You really are not as evil as the mainstream media touts you out to be.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Cristiano had slept fitfully that night. It hadn’t been due to nightmares—rather, he’d laid awake for a very long time, his head consumed with thoughts of Messi and how hard it was to keep hating him because the man was too goddamn nice. Intent on clearing his head, he’d gone out for his run much earlier, relishing in the feel of how the soles of his shoes came into contact with the solid pavement. As a Quidditch player, he spent most of the time in the air; running became his anchor, the act never failed to draw him back to earth.

 

Messi, for all his power in the air, struck Cristiano as the type who was much more content when his feet were on the ground. At one point in his life, he’d binge-watched Messi’s interviews, equal parts irked and fascinated at The Atomic Flea’s humility. Unlike Cristiano, Messi never seemed to feel the need to put on an act. No matter what people said about him, Messi always stayed true to himself, which was something Cristiano despised and envied. While he had worked hard to become the best Seeker of his generation, he’d also taken time to create the mask that he would present to the world. His authentic self was something he reserved only for his family and close friends; aside from the identity of Junior’s birth mother, the true nature of Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro’s heart was probably his best-kept secret.

 

Determined to be a halfway decent host, he made his way back home. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hit the grocery, but his mother always made sure that both he and Junior had enough to eat. He almost wished he’d had her over this week; Dolores Aveiro would have refused to let the Messis eat cereal out of a bowl. Iker and Sergio would be of no help, either; they would take the easy way out and book tables at restaurants whenever they had to entertain guests. Cristiano had lived alone with just Junior for so long (his long-time ex had no domestic bone in her body) that he hadn’t had much practice in the art of home cooking.

 

He had not been expecting to catch a whiff of what smelt like pancakes as soon as he’d opened the door.

 

“Junior?” he hollered, more out of habit than anything else.

 

“In the kitchen, _Pai_!” his son hollered back. “We’re making pancakes!”

 

Cristiano entered the kitchen to find Messi at the stove. Junior was perched on the counter, partially covered in flour, regaling Messi with his school-related tales (or complaints). Thiago, seated serenely in what appeared to be a conjured kiddie chair, was far from the action.

 

“Oh, you’re back,” Messi said, sounding distracted. “I’m sorry about the mess; I’ll clean it up when we’re done. Junior came into my room wondering if we could have pancakes, and I couldn’t say no.”

 

“You can’t just ask our guest to make you breakfast, little man,” Cristiano chastised his son, summoning a towel and an extra shirt from his bedroom. “You should let Mes—Leo and Thiago sleep.”

 

“Don’t be cross with him, Ronaldo,” Messi said sternly. “He wasn’t wheedling, and I offered to make some. Besides, this pleases me; I haven’t made pancakes in quite some time.”

 

Biting back the urge to make a retort, Cristiano pulled out the seat next to Thiago, his irritation slowly dissipating as the boy made grabby hands at him.

 

“He doesn’t talk much, your son?”

 

“Gurgling sounds here and there, and a couple of random words,” Messi replied. “I thought his first word was going to be ‘papi’ or something equally endearing but basic; unfortunately, it turned out to be ‘blue.’ I’m not kidding.”

 

“Blue?” Cristiano sounded perplexed. “Like, the colour blue?”

 

“The dog in that show where that guy in a striped shirt always needs help looking for clues,” Messi rolled his eyes. “I needed to go out for something—I forgot what—so I left Thiago with Geri for like, an hour at most. To entertain him, Geri put on that show. It was the first cartoon he ever saw; I grew up in a pureblood family, so television was pretty unheard of until I went to Hogwarts. He’s obviously too young for it—I mean Thiago and not Geri, even if he is an enormous man-child—but he somehow picked up on that word.”

 

“Blue!” Thiago said cheerfully, as if re-affirming his father’s story.

 

“You should make him watch _Sesame Street_ , too, Leo,” Junior remarked. “That’s what I watch when I’m at my grandma’s. She says it’s very educational.”

 

“Junior takes TV very seriously,” said Cristiano. “He’s dead-set on becoming an 11-year-old bound for Hogwarts, but TV is his most favourite Muggle gadget. He never complains when he has to stay indoors for as long as there are cartoons on.”

 

“You can throw some recommendations my way when Thiago’s a little older, then,” Messi turned to Junior, flicking him on the nose affectionately. “I’m still slow when it comes to picking up on what’s cool in the Muggle world. How do you take your pancakes, Ronaldo? I made a chocolate chip one for Junior earlier; now we’re working on some banana ones.”

 

“Just plain is good for me, thank you,” Cristiano replied. “I don’t have pancakes very often—Iker is quite adamant about our dietary restrictions—so I’m happy to have them as they are.”

 

“Understood. Junior, bring these over to your father, if you would be so kind.”

 

“Leo’s pancakes are super good, _Pai_!” Junior enthused, carefully setting Cristiano’s plate on the breakfast table. “Don’t worry, though; I know I’m not allowed to have too much—this is why we’ve been doing different kinds.”

 

“It’s the weekend, so you get to have three,” Cristiano smiled at him, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “And I think you deserve a prize for being good to our guests.”

 

“Grandma says it’s always important to be polite,” Junior said solemnly. “And that we have to treat other people the way we want to be treated.”

 

Messi laughed. It wasn’t until Cristiano put his utensils together on the empty plate that he realised he’d forgotten to be annoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so they are at peace. For now, anyway.


End file.
